recitations · · ·
by elleyvn
Summary: a k/s anthology o3. "i'd never ask him for that. he was always late paying the bills anyways." mama's face never gave too much away, of course. it was always her voice—this time, she could hear the weightlessness in her mother's words, like sunshine on a summery day. at least until the clouds rolled over, and blighted it all. —kakasaku
1. 01 graveyard (his)

_when i was younger_   
_i saw my daddy cry_   
_and curse at the wind_   
_he broke his own heart_   
_and i watched_   
_as he tried to reassemble it_  
 _"the only exception" paramore_

.

.

.

the envelopes came twice a week, and they always ended up in the trash—unopened. hana knew because they poked out of the lid each time, crinkled and stained with whatever papa cooked for dinner the night before. as he always did, he would contemplate the neat script of his name with pressed lips. and she'd watch, crinkling the hem of her skirt in her palms, as he buried it beneath layers of junk mail and cheese wrappers.

in the light, his eyes always looked a little bit brighter, like windowpanes in the summer rain.

her weekends belonged to papa more often than not, and he enjoyed living in small spaces. his apartment was no bigger than mama's living room and kitchen combined, with half as many windows and twice as many bookshelves. there were all kinds of stories on those shelves; thrillers and mysteries and—papa's favorites—romances. she left those alone, for the most part. the orange covers were eye-catching, but she'd always been told not to touch.

even if he always kept one in his back pocket.

like most of his things, they seemed to hold a special place in his heart. his home was filled to the brim with mementos. but mama always likened it to a graveyard; a memorial to _lives lost_ and hana could never understand why she sounded so defeated when she said papa was living with ghosts.

"hanako, come here." he called her, palm down and fingers beckoning in a slight wave. no sooner than her first step within his arm's reach, long fingers threaded through her hair, ruffling pearly strands. hana observed as he closed the book resting in his other hand and tucked it neatly into his pocket; there, it peeked out at her.

the man cleared his throat, and she glanced upward. as long as she could remember, papa had been tall—gray-headed, despite his half-hearted insistence that he wasn't very old at all.

"what do you want to do now?" he asked her, fussing over stray bits that wouldn't stick behind her ears before scooping her up into his arms. his question, tucked between one affectionate kiss to her temple and the next, kept her silent for a moment, thoughtfully pushing her thumbs together.

"I don't know."

her attention fluttered from one book to the next; stuck on words that seemed too long, lining thick spines—some looked like missing pieces from mama's medical collections. she hesitated. "are those mama's books?"

he seemed to stop then, fingers pausing to curl around her upper arm. "yes, baby. she left them here. she's coming to pick you up later today, you know?"

the reminder came with a soft sway, as he began to rock on his heels. she nodded, sniffling lightly and allowing her eyes to close against the sudden weight of her lids; with papa's warmth came a certain kind of comfort—her fingers folded into his shirt, holding tight.

"for when she stays over?" she began to hum, ignoring his change of subject as five-year-olds were prone to do. stubbornly, she plucked at kinks in his knit sweater, waiting for his answer.

after a minute of silence, he sighed. she could feel him, resting his cheek against the top of her head—"we need to get ready for you to go."

she shook her head, lower lip pushed into a pout. with a chuckle—soft, gracious—he shifted her in his grasp and made a steady path for his bedroom. there, he laid her on his sheets and tucked her beneath a worn duvet. hana watched him sit on the edge through half-lidded eyes, curling into a ball beneath his steady gaze. "are you going to come and live with us?"

he stared at her, until hana was certain he'd never answer; that maybe he hadn't heard her, or she'd been so _so_ wrong to ask. the tell-tale knot in her throat made it too hard to say anything else, so she stared back.

speechless.

finally, papa spoke; running his hand through his hair— _as if by sorting the wayward locks, he'd sort his thoughts as well_.

or at least, that's what mama always said.

"maybe, sweetheart."

but papa got quieter when he didn't believe the things he said. she released a soft sigh and willed her eyes closed; twisting the covers in her grasp, all the while. far from a dull little girl, hana knew what it meant when they lied.

 _mama did the same._


	2. 02 triumph

**_tw; underage_**

 _you're on your own_  
 _in a world you've grown_  
 _few more years to go_  
 _don't let the hurdle fall_  
 _so be the girl you loved_  
 _be the girl you loved_

 _i'll wait_  
 _so show me why you're strong_  
 _ignore everybody else_  
 _we're alone now_  
 _"retrograde" james blake_

.

.

.

the first time is happenstance. kakashi just isn't accustomed to her; this girl that only bears a vague resemblance to haruno sakura. the little girl he recalls was a slip of a thing who preferred to keep a healthy distance from danger. not exactly the ideal trait of a shinobi— _but who was he to judge?_

in truth, he has played judge, jury and executioner—eradicating her chances of a career with his gross negligence.

she's all but _begged_ him for another shot.

the past three years in which he's returned to anbu have only re-sharpened all his worn edges. kakashi watches her slip tight, black leather gloves onto her tiny hands. they creak over her knuckles, groaning with the strong tug that she gives them before she appears to be satisfied. her lips tilt, maybe a bit crookedly, and for the first time since he's been lured into this farce of a spar—

his interest is piqued.

and his fingers itch for a cigarette. it's a filthy habit, helped along with late nights spent in corner booths at the local bar—his fingernails are luckily too short to be stained by the nicotine, but all the same, he runs a hand over his jaw and inhales traces of his last good smoke trapped in the fabric. kakashi has always been a man of compulsions and addictions; whether it's his daily visits to the memorial or the painstakingly polished armor hanging in his closet.

he thinks that _maybe_ , he shouldn't be going out of his way to associate with old, _dear_ ties—lest he get coaxed back into _giving a damn_.

yet another bad habit of his.

"kakashi-sensei," she calls from across the field, hands resting on her hips. the new curves of her body draws nothing more than an extended look, one he immediately regrets when she takes a step closer with a daringly confident spark in her gaze. kakashi purses his lips into a thin line, tucking his little orange novel— _another vice_ —into his back pocket.

"are you ready to start?"

as if he hasn't been the one waiting _on her_.

"only if you are, sakura- _chan_." kakashi offers a smile when he steps forward, teeth gritted together just firmly enough to hiss the final syllable. his eyes crinkle, as they always have when he smiles, though what he offers isn't nearly as lackadaisical as it seems. a wolf's grin hides behind his mask this time.

ready to catch little sakura unaware.

 _but that isn't really how it turns out._

when she splits the ground beneath her fist with a _love tap_ to unearth his hiding spot, the jounin admits to himself that he may have underestimated her.

her pleasure shines so clearly on her face that he's forced to admire it; the twitch of her brow and the barest hint of a canine visible between her lips. he's on his feet again before she moves another step, toying with the edge of his headband idly, "that's a nice trick you have there." he says, barely teasing.

"my shishou taught me." sakura announces, with no small amount of pride, and kakashi feels his hackles raise. it's unfair of him, he's aware, to resent the fact that she sought a different teacher. and the fact that she had managed to earn the attention of the _hokage herself_ makes him feel like a blind man—oblivious all those years to the potential right in front of his nose.

of course, it's all true. (but that doesn't mean he enjoys thinking about it.)

"good. let me see what else she taught you." spiteful, he invites her with a lifted hand to come closer. the chasm between them serves as a stark reminder of exactly why close quarters combat is a bad idea, but he wants to see what kind of damage she can inflict on a living, breathing body. maybe he's a masochist.

with a flick of his thumb, he tips his headband up and exposes the crimson eye hidden beneath.

the details come to life, then. sakura, curling her toes in her boots, thighs flexing before she takes off in a run—silent, just as he'd showed her years ago—and leaps across the jagged gap in the earth. already, her fist is clenched, sailing toward him without the hesitation that he knows haruno sakura for.

no, this is a different girl. (a kunoichi.)

kakashi dodges. to the side, and then backward, when she _growls_ under her breath and swings again—an uppercut that brushes his ribs and sets his skin on fire. preoccupied with the blazing path her chakra makes across his chest, he doesn't catch the heel of her foot before it connects with the earth and rips it wide open.

open palms land on his chest, small and warm but devoid of the strength that he's witnessed so far in this strange opponent of his. kakashi catches her wrists in his grasp, but too late. instead of pushing, sakura pulls him forward with a look in her eyes that he'd say was _desperation_ —something in his chest clenches _hard_ ; the knot in his throat steals his next breath away—if he didn't know any better.

does he know better?

 _why'd you leave me?_ she seems to say with her eyes, but kakashi covers his sharingan before he can take note of it, or memorize how many shades of green are held within that accusing stare.

(it's too late.)

"i have somewhere to be, sakura-chan. i'll see you around." he vanishes in a flurry of leaves with a carefully _careless_ salute, leaving her empty-handed; curling her fingers into the warm, summer air.

the first time he loses to haruno sakura is an accident, because kakashi has forgotten what it's like to have something to prove—and how much strength that can give anyone.

.

.

.

the second time is providence. he avoids her for all of six weeks, skirting encounters at the hokage tower and in the market on busy days.

sakura knows because she witnesses the gaps he leaves behind; where his voice had been a minute before she'd turned the corner; where the scent of lightning and rain lingers in the training fields.

and it's nothing new.

he's always had somewhere else to be—somewhere out of touch and _out of reach_.

it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. she tastes salt and ashes in her daily coffee, and wonders when hatake kakashi came to matter _so damn much_.

but she knows the answer. he's mattered since the day she found herself stumbling to empty fields in the dead of night, intoxicated to the tips of her toes at the tender age of fifteen. _for all of the training they give their children, it's a wonder that konoha doesn't store their liquor more securely._ in truth, he's mattered since team seven has been indefinitely removed from the mission roster; with a wonderful little asterisk next to their registration number—

disbanded until further notice.

every day that goes by in which no such notice arrives on her doorstep, sakura finds a new person to blame for their _misfortune_. naruto, for his failure to keep his fucking ' _promise of a lifetime_ '—for leaving her with high hopes and empty hands; kakashi, for his half-hearted efforts to lead them without getting close enough to risk feeling _anything_ ; sasuke, for his incurable wrath—for leaving them in shambles without a single look back.

but mostly herself, for failing to hold them all together. because if she wasn't there to shine like the rest of them, she could've at least acted as their _glue_.

as their earth, there to catch them when they fell while reaching for the moon and stars.

they were her boys, after all. and she'd lost them.

she gives her former sensei six weeks to run away from her—just long enough for him to slip back into his old habits. three hours at the memorial in the morning, praying for forgiveness for the sins committed the night before—a walk to the hokage tower, seeking missions with ever-increasing chances of being his last.

it's improbable that he actually knows how to fail a mission, but kakashi is _trying_.

seven weeks, and then she sets out for his apartment at the edge of town; where the buildings are pockmarked with time and potted plants dot the streets. in the dark, his door is a faded grey, adorned with tilted numbers and scores from stray kunai. sakura reaches up, pushing the numbers into their proper place—only to watch them drop when she knocks.

there's not an answer, so much as there is a _groan_ from the other side of the door. brows furrowed, she leans in to listen over the soft hum of rain at her back. she can feel each drop, rolling down her spine in fine rivulets. the remainder of the day is mapped on her skin—in shallow cuts and bruises, in mud sprayed across her forearms and the faint stain of blood on her lips.

on her tongue, the taste of alcohol lingers; just enough to permit her journey across konoha in the dead of the night.

"kakashi?" her palm rests flat against the door, beside her forehead as she listens again for any sign of life on the other side. it arrives in the form of the knob turning. her balance nearly falters for how fast the door opens, to reveal a stern face staring back at her—hazy-eyed with sleep and yet just as severe as she's always recalled.

kakashi stares at her as if he's still trying to figure out why she exists, let alone why she's on his doorstep at three in the morning.

 _it's something she wonders about as well._

she finds quickly that she has nothing to say. instead, she shivers— _violently_. the only sound to escape her lips is a muffled apology, pushed past the shield of her fingers as her stomach turns. the grip of his hand around her wrist—tight, unforgiving—goes unnoticed simply because she's stumbling into his apartment after him; making a beeline for his bathroom.

"you're drunk," she hears him mutter under his breath, voice strangely clear in the otherwise silent room. she ignores the foreign note in his words—confusion? disgust? _guilt?_ —in favor of clutching the edges of his toilet and purging bottles of the finest sake from her system.

she watches years of hard-won acknowledgement go down the drain with it.

after, she wipes at her mouth and takes the offered towel to wipe her face. only then does she register the fall of her hair around her shoulders; the vanishing warmth of a hand at her nape. sakura braces herself, curling her fingers into the worn fabric and rising to her feet, "i'm sorry."

"why are you here?"

as always, kakashi cuts to the chase. if she hadn't been expecting it, sakura might've flinched. instead, she locks eyes with him as best she can in the low light—to find she's staring at two eyes, _not one_. at a nose bearing a soft tan-line across the bridge, and downturned lips with a single mole just underneath, skewed a little to the right.

there is no mask.

the disfigurement that team seven had betted so fervently on _simply doesn't exist_.

he's young. so much younger than _anyone_ ever gave him credit for, with his grey hair and the weariness in his eyes.

it's a minor discovery that pales in comparison to the pain etched so cleanly on his exposed features. _why are you staring at me?_ he asks, without saying anything at all—perhaps it's why he's always worn a mask, she thinks, because kakashi is expressive in ways she'd have trouble processing, even unimpaired. he emanates distress, something akin to _shame_ and sakura immediately regrets having looked.

she inspects her shoes, wiggling her toes and tightening her grip on the towel in her grasp until the threads tear.

no more being pushed away.

"i wanted to see you." she declares, too pre-occupied to culture her words into something palatable on her tongue—something that doesn't reek of a need to be accepted, _or loved_. "i'm tired. can i sleep here?"

her question goes unanswered, left in the silence while she waits for him to become comfortable—it'll be a long wait, she knows—and shuffles her feet uncertainly. before long, sakura hears the sound of him moving, padding quietly across the room. he moves here and there, and back again, before a bundle is pushed into her arms and his voice, muffled by fabric, reaches her ears, "get cleaned up."

after she brushes her teeth a time or two and washes away the grime on her skin, sakura emerges sobered. the light switch at the side of the door remains untouched; she makes a wayward path through his hallways, bare-footed and blinded by the towel draped over her head. slender fingertips grip the doorframe of his bedroom—

hesitant for only the briefest second, before she makes a steady path forward.

"kakashi," sakura doesn't wonder when it became acceptable to call him by his given name; only when _sensei_ became an uncomfortable reminder of the past. her lips purse into a thin line, as she faces the foot of his bed, watching the man sitting against the headboard with a little orange book cradled in his palm.

when at last, he seems to take notice of her and glance up, sakura lowers herself to sit—perched neatly in the center of his sheets, and stare. her legs folded beneath her, she crawls to close the distance with bright eyes locked firmly on his masked face. she could blame it on the remnants of alcohol still in her blood, if she wished. but there is _nothing_ clouding her judgment once she nudges his legs apart and sits between them, molding her ribs to his chest; her cheek to his heartbeat. his arms remain painfully still at his sides, his breathing steady against her ear as she rests her head on his shoulder.

 _he's warm, if anything._

greedy, sakura takes comfort with his implicit permission; without a word spoken, beyond the mournful utterance of his name in the dusk. only after sleep has pulled her halfway under does she feel the heat of his skin against her back, her nape; calloused palms rubbing up and down to soothe her the rest of the way into slumber.

the second time she realizes hatake kakashi is only human—angry, scared and lonely _just like her_ —is an accident. it's also the last time, _because she never forgets again._

.

.

.

the third time is intentional. sakura has made a (bad) habit of making herself comfortable in his bed. what should've been a discouraged behavior has grown into twice-weekly sleepovers, where he finds his arms full of a girl too young to appreciate the gravity of crawling into the arms of a man almost twice her age.

he doesn't feel nearly as bad about it as he should.

and he's never turned her away.

in place of the guilt is a crushing sense of _fear_ —a nameless terror that catches him unaware in the earliest hours of the dawn, when her heartbeat rests so firmly against his that the rhythms merge into a single, thrumming pulse. half-conscious, he tightens his grip around her waist and tugs her closer.

hoping to stave off death itself.

but the haruno sakura he knew before: the little girl incapable of standing up for herself, for the sake of her crush, or her own insecurities, is dead already. instead, he's faced with a young woman who rends the earth beneath her fists; who waves away his wounds with soft hands and softer eyes, as if she's been waiting to fix him. as if it's all she's ever wanted.

even if he knows it isn't the truth, kakashi allows her to believe it. letting sakura think that he's not already broken beyond repair is far from the worst of his crimes. yet he's never apologized for anything. instead, he opens his arms and draws her in—presses covered lips to her forehead once she's fallen asleep and prays that she won't be the next on his list of _people to lose_.

he's already tangled in rage, flirting with the same kind of blindness that lured sasuke into the devil's hold.

kakashi has no desire to slip off the edge he's been toeing, with her death.

when he can't handle thinking about it anymore, he leaves her there—sleeping soundly beneath his blankets and slides down to the floor. with his back to the wall, the jounin closes his eyes and allows his thoughts to drift.

"hey."

he feels her slide next to him, picks up her scent on his next breath and feels her seeking out his hands. ungloved, the heat of her palm sliding against his own is enough to draw an eye open—to catch her staring at him with unapologetic curiosity. _affection_ , perhaps, if he forgot that this little girl was pining after a lost little boy.

"mm?" kakashi questions, voice lowered to little more than a murmur.

he watches as sakura plays with the hem of her ( _his_ ) shirt—borrowed for a lack of anything else to sleep in—before she shifts. her hand slips up his shoulder to grip the neck of his sleeveless top, and before a word slips out, she twists her body to straddle his thigh. willfully, kakashi bends his focus away from the knee resting between his legs, and the skimming of her fingers through the fine hairs at his nape to settle his hands on her waist, "sakura—" it's the most harmless part of her that he can touch; because while haruno sakura may not have as many sharp edges as him, she is dangerous to hold all the same.

her forehead presses against his, verdant eyes scanning his face for a long, silent minute. not for the first time, kakashi finds himself at a loss for words.

"i missed you. more than i miss sasuke-kun, or naruto." sakura pauses, drawing her thumbs absently across his shoulders. he endures her fidgeting with patience for the most part, brows furrowed and lips pressed tightly together, "do you know why?"

he hopes her question is rhetorical. he hopes that the glassiness in her eyes won't mean he has a crying girl on his lap, but if only one of those wishes can be granted, kakashi chooses the latter—he forces out an answer, embarrassed by the break in the single syllable that slips out, without his permission, "no."

she leans forward, breathing out a soft sob. wrong answer.

" _no?_ you're an idiot." her lips press softly to the corner of his mouth through the fabric of his mask, to his cheeks and his eyelids, "i missed you more because you were _right here_. all this time. i couldn't get to you, no matter how hard i looked, or how many people i asked."

something about the weight of her body pressed against his should be _indecent_. the soft, freckled skin of her thighs peeks out from beneath the long hem of his old shirt, and for the life of him, he can't recollect if there's anything else under there. that she's placed herself so trustingly in his lap should inspire disgust, but sakura's raw, disenchanted affirmations render him quiet—

contemplative.

her lips find his cheek, lower lip trembling against thin fabric. his heart quakes, shaken by the truths she offers so easily and it's almost certainly _wrong_ to accept her kisses but kakashi tilts his head back to do so, gazing up with half-lidded eyes, "i'm—"

"it felt like you gave up on me," she finishes before he can begin, and something in his chest twists painfully. her voice falls away to a whisper, syllables buried underneath the occasional sniffle. as she cries, kakashi lifts his head to smooth back the stray strands clinging to her face. his touch lingers at the tip of her nose, then the cupid's bow of her mouth.

"sakura," he says, and it could be a prayer or a curse, for the astonishment that slips out with his next exhalation, "i'd give up on myself first."

he already had, but he doesn't say as much.

her response comes wordlessly—in the gentle slide of her fingertips between his mask and his skin, begging permission in that presumptuous way she usually does; pushing to see if he resists. _testing his limits again_.

when kakashi does nothing but gaze up at her, mismatched eyes memorizing, sakura lowers his last barrier to rest forgotten against his collarbones and offers him a sad semblance of a smile, "i wouldn't let you."

it's when she kisses him, gently, at the corner of his mouth that kakashi loses that beautiful little girl he was so afraid of failing, but failed anyway. it's the third time one of his precious students has left him behind, he supposes—but haruno sakura returns in another form entirely.

she's far too young, _and he's far too ruined_ but he cradles her face in his hands and finds her lips in the dark.

"okay, sakura—you win."


	3. 03 graveyard (hers)

_just stop your crying_

 _have the time of your life_

 _breaking through the atmosphere_

 _and things are pretty good from here_

 _remember everything will be alright_

.

.

.

mama got her own envelopes; always on the first day of the month, from people that hana didn't know but mama was adequately familiar with to sigh whenever she opened them. it was always a heavy sound, plain in the deafening silence of their little townhouse—enough to draw her attention from her untouched toys to watch her mother.

she smoothed the folded edges of the papers out, always fixing, and signed her name in pretty, flowing script. hana watched her fill in blanks with seemingly meaningless numbers and lick the edges of the envelope corners to seal it all up again. and then it was tucked back into the mailbox, the flag went up, and hana didn't think about it again until next month.

but mama thought about it all the time.

she could see it, in the soft frown on her lips—in the nibbled tips of pens, clutched tightly enough to crack along the side. but even with her worries etched so clearly on her face, mama smiled when she asks for a bedtime story; smiled even harder—so much brighter—when she asked when papa is coming over.

"oh, baby. one day. it's been very busy lately."

slender fingers ran softly along her scalp, then; soothing her into a light slumber. but always, in the dead of the night when she woke—alone and thirsty—it was mama's muted cries she heard beyond her bedroom door. her mother was no longer the gentle, smiling woman that hanako knew so well—

but a lump in her blankets, clutching her pillow and one of papa's forgotten shirts.

mama never heard when she shut the door again, tiny fingers gripping the knob to make sure it didn't click.

—

"it takes some getting used to, not splitting the bill."

it was an offhanded comment, hana knew. mama had a tendency to ramble when her thoughts were somewhere else—or at least, papa said so—and today was no different. her eyes skimmed the short stack of bills in her wallet, sorting through this and that, before she handed a majority of it over to the little old woman at their door.

hana watched from the edges of her skirt, fingers gripped tightly in the soft fabric. something about the woman's hawkish stare called to mind witches; evil spells and caged monsters.

mama said she needed to scale back the fairy tales.

"well, you could always take your ex to court—had mine paying my rent for ten years after he split!" mama looked to shrink in on herself, the smile on her lips faltering before she laughed—too high, too much like those cries she heard in the night, hana thought.

"i'd never ask him for that. he was always late paying the bills anyways." mama's face never gave too much away, of course. it was always her voice—this time, she could hear the weightlessness in her mother's words, like sunshine on a summery day. at least until the clouds rolled over, and blighted it all.

the rest of their exchange went smoothly, with the old crone departing after sharing a few tales of her no-good ex-husband. mama crumpled soon after she shut the door, sliding down to sit on the floor with her head clutched in her palms.

shoulders trembling.

"mama?" she touched her gently, laying gentle touches on the back of her mother's hands. as if by magic, hana was drawn into her arms, held so closely that her heart swelled in her chest. "mama, i'm here."

it was the declaration that unraveled those smiles; the silence with which mama paid their bills alone for the first time; slept alone and cried alone.

"i know, sweetheart." mama choked out the words while pressing soft, wet kisses to her temple. tearfully, mama gazed down at her as she wrapped her arms fully around those quaking shoulders and gripped her tight—as tight as she'd always been held, by mama and papa alike.

mama, when she tried to hold everything together like she was made of glue and papa, when he tried to hide away the shadows in his eyes and both of them together, sipping coffee in the kitchen at three in the morning.

pretending his nightmares hadn't left him screaming in the room next door, smiling at her so softly when they tucked her into bed and read her stories of heroes and their battles with witches and dragons.

wordlessly, hana stared at her mother, willing back her own tears with a soft sigh. because of all things—mama took the most comfort from the gray of her eyes.


End file.
